


Stranded

by Oinkadoink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Desert Island Fic, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft Holmes-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-02-15 21:25:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18677665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oinkadoink/pseuds/Oinkadoink
Summary: Between the howling wind, the pounding rain and the crashing waves, the two feel miles apart. Mycroft has barely broken the surface of the water when another wave rushes over his head. This time, when he reemerges, Anthea is nowhere to be seen.~Mycroft stranded on a deserted island fic





	1. Chapter 1

“Anthea!” Mycroft shouts as he struggles against the waves.“Over here! Take my ha-” his voice cuts off abruptly as another wave crests over his head. Ten feet away, Anthea is bobbing in the water, one injured arm floating uselessly by her side while she frantically paddles with the other, desperate to stay afloat.

Between the howling wind, the pounding rain and the crashing waves, the two feel miles apart. Mycroft has barely broken the surface of the water when another wave rushes over his head. This time, when he reemerges, Anthea is nowhere to be seen. Mycroft twists his neck back and forth, bringing a hand up to wipe the water running into his eyes, his heart thudding so loudly that it nearly drowns out the thunder echoing across the sea. Another bolt of lightning illuminates the sky and Mycroft can finally see Anthea, further away now, as she lifts her head briefly from the water, coughing and sputtering, before sinking back into the depths.

Heart still racing wildly, Mycroft begins to swim towards his assistant. His clothes weigh him down and make his trek sluggish but he is single-minded in his mission. _Anthea, don’t drown, don’t drown, Anthea, stay afloat, don’t drown, swim, swim, don’t drown—_ his mind barrages him with this repetitive mantra, guiding him until he is near enough to grab onto Anthea.

The moment he has her, Anthea clambers onto Mycroft, dragging them both below the surface once more. Water fills Mycroft’s lungs as he feels Anthea struggling to stay afloat. Eventually, he is able to grab her good arm and yank the both of them above the water.

“Calm down,” Mycroft is able to say between coughs, “calm down or you’ll drown us both!”

Finally, blessedly, Anthea stops struggling. Mycroft secures her good arm around his shoulder. “All we can do right now is stay above the water. Lean back with me.” The pair float on their backs, rain pelting their faces. Mycroft considers something for a moment, then opens his mouth and lets his tongue hang out.

“Sir?” Anthea’s voice is hoarse.

“Fresh water.” He turns his eyes towards Anthea to see her nod. She mimics him, catching what rainwater she can. It’s not enough, will not be enough to sustain them, but it will have to do for now.

Anthea is struggling to remain conscious, and Mycroft is similarly feeling the adrenaline drain from his body, replaced by cold dread. _How far are we from shore? There’s no way we can make it back. We can’t just float here forever. We’re going to die out here. We’re going to die._ Mycroft closes his eyes tight, trying to will the panic away. Anthea shifts beside him, linking her arm with Mycroft’s.

Together, they wait for the storm to subside.

—-

In the low light of the early morning, they are able to see a shape in the horizon which they are hesitant to call an island. They head towards it, Mycroft making better progress than Anthea can with her one-armed side stroke. As morning advances, the island comes into better focus and the pair can make out trees gathered on its surface.

Anthea is falling behind again and Mycroft’s mind is racing as he tries to calculate how far from shore they are, when their last meal was, how long it’s been since they had fresh water. It feels like they’ve gone hours making very little progress but eventually they can see the distance between them and the island begin to steadily shrink.

With renewed energy, Mycroft swims faster. When he finally sees the shore come into focus, he looks back just in time to see Anthea slip beneath the surface.

His heart leaps into his throat as he turns abruptly around and races back towards Anthea. By the time he reaches her she has broken through the surface again, flailing and coughing. Thankfully she doesn’t pull Mycroft under this time when he gets hold of her. She is shaking, the extra effort needed to swim with one arm leaving her exhausted.

“Nearly there,” Mycroft pulls her with him back towards the island. “Hold on to me, we’re nearly there.”

—-

They reach the shore by midafternoon. Mycroft is dragging the two of them up the bank by the end of it, Anthea doing just enough to keep her legs from scraping against the rocky surface below. They move as far from the tide as their legs can carry them before collapsing onto a flat patch of dirt.

Mycroft’s muscles are screaming, his lungs are on fire, and his throat is throbbing. He rests on his hands and knees taking big gulps of air, which turns into dry sobbing. Beside him, Anthea is similarly struggling to regain control of her breathing. When his panting has finally reached a steady rhythm, Mycroft turns his head towards Anthea. After a beat, she looks at him in disbelief. Mycroft can see his own similar expression reflected in her eyes.

They roll onto their backs towards the sky, a clear-blue so different from yesterday’s stormy atmosphere. So many plans laid, so much to look forward to, weeks of diplomatic discussions—all of it, dashed upon their violent ejection into the cold sea.

It’s a beautiful day. They’re laying on the beach, there’s a cool breeze cutting through the hot sun, and the sky is a dazzling blue—not a bird, cloud or rescue plane in sight.

And Mycroft can feel nothing but despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! Although I hope to update my other fic, this idea has recently taken hold and I've been trying to ride that momentum for as long as I can, so expect this fic to recieve the majority of my attention for a while.
> 
> This fic is gonna get... weird. I'll be tagging as I go (none of the major Ao3 warnings will apply) because I don't want to give everything away all at once. When I feel a chapter warrants a new tag, the fic will get a new tag, so if anyone's concerned about certain content, check the tags before any update!
> 
> I hope you'll stick around!


	2. Chapter 2

They both strip until they are in their undershirts, keeping their trousers and shoes on. They begin surveying the shoreline, trying to find a section of beach that isn’t overrun with rocks. Eventually they find a place with enough flat surface area that they can comfortably camp on. Mycroft falls roughly onto his backside, still sore from the swim. Anthea follows, her movements more careful.

“What now, sir?”

 _Is anyone going to be looking for us?—_ is her unspoken query.

“Water, food, and shelter.” _Our plane crashed into the ocean. They’ll be looking for our bodies at the bottom of the sea—_ is his implied reply.

Anthea winces, turning her head to face the horizon. She’s cradling her injured arm to her body. _Better an arm than a leg or head injury,_ Mycroft thinks. It’s miraculous, really, that neither of them are seriously injured. Knowing that would be little comfort to Anthea, Mycroft doesn’t voice this opinion.

“I think, first,” Mycroft stands up, groaning with the effort, “we should take care of that arm. Is it broken?"

She began shaking her head, then switches to nodding. "It's, er, dislocated. But it might've broken too."

Mycroft nods. _The pain is worse than she's letting on_ , he thinks.

"You might have to, uh," she grits her teeth, "pop it back in."

Mycroft blanches at that. She's correct, of course, but the thought makes him queasy. He takes a deep breath, shoring up his squeamishness for the task at hand. "Right. Allow me." When he touches her upper arm Anthea momentarily rears back. She calms herself, reassures Mycroft that she's alright, and lets him firm his grip.

"Ready? One, two…" he puts his body weight into the movement and Anthea cries out as her arm is set back into place.

He gives her a moment to collect herself. Her breath comes out in wet gasps as she continues to clutch her arm. When she's able to speak, she nods and says breathlessly, "Thank you, sir." Still trying to settle the nausea curling in his stomach, Mycroft doesn't bother to acknowledge her gratitude. Instead, he watches as she gingerly rests her injured left arm against her thigh, wincing when the two meet. It’s immediately obvious to Mycroft that her pain isn’t solely from the dislocation.

He reaches out and she allows him to gently probe her swollen forearm. She’s blinking rapidly and at one point lets a quiet moan slip through her teeth.

“That doesn’t feel right,” she says, biting her lip.

“I’m not feeling a break.”

“Think there’s one, though.”

“Hm. A hairline fracture, perhaps. We should treat it as a break either way.” Mycroft looks towards the trees, calculating. “We can use some sticks to create a splint, maybe fashion some sort of sling with leaves…” He heads up the embankment and begins scanning the ground for any fallen branches. At first he is only looking for branches sturdy enough to work in a splint, until he considers that they could probably use wood for many other purposes. When he returns to Anthea, his arms are full of branches, twigs and leaves of various sizes. He dumps them onto the ground beside her and begins rummaging through the pile.

Eventually, he manages to fashion a crude splint. He attempts to make a sling out of some ground cover plants he finds, but the knots comes undone. Instead, he grabs his discarded dress shirt, It takes several more tries before he’s fashioned something that functions, by which time Anthea’s forehead has broken out in sweat from the pain and Mycroft’s neck aches from its prolonged time in an awkward angle.

There’s a brief moment of silence as the two stare into the vast ocean surrounding them. Mycroft’s mind races, calculating the distance from the continent, how wide an area the search party will scout, how long it will take for them to die of exposure, or dehydration, or starvation.

“Sir.”

Mycroft blinks, turning to Anthea.

“I’m thirsty.” What she means is, _We can’t panic. One thing at a time._

Mycroft nods. _Right. Keep your mind focused._

—-

They make a little headway into the thick tropical forest before it’s clear neither of them are up for much more for the day. Both of them are sore to the point of shaking and likely beginning to suffer from heat stroke. In a shaded area, Mycroft finds rainwater from the night before pooled on the ground cover plants. Carefully, he leans over one of the leaves and slurps with as much dignity as he can manage. Anthea does the same. The water is warm and Mycroft cringes at its earthy taste. He leans over with the intent to drink from another leaf and instead stumbles forward into the brush.

“Perhaps we should stay in the shade.” Anthea suggests.

Mycroft sits up and nods. His stomach gurgles unhappily and he doesn’t know whether to curse or be thankful for the fact that, up until recently, he’d been neglecting his diet; the extra weight will sustain him for longer, but he’s become unused to depriving himself food.

Mycroft closes his eyes and shuffles through his mind. In his brief time as a field operative, he’d learnt a few basic survival skills. The memory of it is old and dusty— even then, Mycroft knew he was destined for administrative work and therefore unlikely to use those skills. Still, he supposes he’s grateful for the training.

They need shelter first. Last night’s storm broke a recent heat wave, but given the climate in the area, they’ll need a way to keep themselves cool for the duration of the day. They’re already in the shade, which is a start, but the air is stagnant here and they’ll want to be in a place where they can utilise the cool sea breeze. First they’ll need materials to build their shelter.

Mycroft stands back up again and begins his search.

—-

“Enough, sir. You have to stop,”

It’s been dark for over an hour now and Mycroft has yet to build their shelter. The pair had been stacking sticks and leaves into a makeshift tent but their best attempts collapsed each time. Anthea gave up first, her arm so swollen and painful that she had to stop for fear of vomiting.

Mycroft hasn’t rested since. He’s shaking and sweaty and will undoubtedly regret not taking a break sooner, but all he can think is, _if I can’t complete this most basic of tasks, there is no hope for us. We’re going to die._ He forcefully slots one branch against another, knocking a side wall over in the process.

“Mycroft!”

Mycroft turns towards Anthea, her eyes illuminated by the moon.

“You’ve done enough. You need rest.”

“If I can just…”

“Let it be. It’ll be there in the morning.”

Mycroft feels a sudden lurch in his stomach as he realises—yes, they’ll be here in the morning. And the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Indefinitely, likely for the rest of their lives.

“Stop thinking so hard.” Anthea chides. She lays on her side, tucking her good arm beneath her head to use as a pillow. “You’ll drive yourself mad if you keep that up. We can’t afford to go on worrying. Just rest.”

Slowly, Mycroft sinks onto the dirt. Laying down, he mirrors Anthea’s pose, leaving a comfortable distance between the two of them. A rock pokes his hip; he contorts his body into a shape that will keep him from encountering the lumpiest terrain. “So much for the ambassador’s suite,” he quips.

Anthea smiles weakly at his comment. It’s a far cry from the usual snark she gives him whenever he tries a joke. She, too, is realising the futility in attempting any amount of sleep on the cold ground.

They lay there for a while, the sound of the ocean waves not nearly as soothing as they would be on an audiotape while lazing in bed back in London. Leaves rustle and trees creak in the wind. The moon is nearly full, shedding enough light that they can see where the dirt merges into the sand and weaves toward the shoreline.

After so much physical exertion, Mycroft would normally fall asleep almost immediately. Indeed, up until he laid on the ground, he felt a tiredness that wore its way down to his bones. Now, he’s completely alert. It’s as if he’s just risen from a full night’s sleep after turning in early with a glass of brandy.

He looks across the short expanse between him and his assistant and sees that she is just as restless. She’s gazing somewhere above his head, eyes glassy, clearly not really focused on anything in particular. She takes a deep breath through her nose, shuddering upon exhale.

She’s trying not to cry, Mycroft realises suddenly. It surprises him, though he’s not sure why—he thinks even _he_ will probably give into tears sometime between now and his inevitable end here. It’s human nature to fear death and, as much as he pretends otherwise, Mycroft is all too human. By that logic, Anthea—whose intellect and self-restraint, though far above average, are not nearly as impressive as Mycroft’s—would be even more affected.

She shudders through an exhale again. Mycroft wonders if he should comfort her, not that he knows how to go about doing something like that. He settles for closing his eyes and rolling over, jabbing his hip again, until he’s facing away from her. At this, Anthea stops her careful breathing. Mycroft feels a spike of irritation—his gesture was meant as permission for her to cry in relative privacy, but she took it as admonishment.

“You need to take your own advice,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, “and stop thinking so hard.”

He focuses on the sound of crashing waves and pretends this was all a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up sometime next week. Let me know what you think! :)


	3. Chapter 3

Neither of them have slept by the time the sun rises. Mycroft is even more sore today. His stomach aches for food, his skin feels on fire, and his mouth is dry. He is no longer in the shade, the rising light illuminating every stark bruise and blistering sunburn on his skin. Anthea is sitting upright beside him, bad arm resting against her middle.

Mycroft reviews his mental checklist of what they need to do. Shelter and a sustainable water source are still their top priorities. He desperately wants food, but they can go without that for much longer.

With effort, Mycroft gets to his feet and looks around him. The plants still sheltered from the sun are glistening with morning dew. He fumbles back to his knees and, throwing dignity to the wind, licks the droplets. It’s ridiculous, expending this much effort for some measly drops of water, but he continues.

“Sir.” He looks up and Anthea is there, leaning over with a handkerchief. She swipes the cloth over some plants until it is damp with dew, then hands it to Mycroft. “Wring it over your mouth,” she says. Mycroft understands and does so. He tilts his head back and opens his mouth wide. Taking the handkerchief between both hands, he twists and squeezes it until a small pool of water drips onto his tongue. It is still not much and not enough, but he feels much less animal having done so.

“They must’ve updated survival training since you were a field agent,” Anthea explains, knowing full well Mycroft has already deduced that. It earns her an irritated side-eye, at which she simply smiles politely. In spite of his annoyance, Mycroft finds the brief flicker of normalcy welcome. He collects some more dew on the cloth and takes another drink, then repeats the action for Anthea, aware the motion would prove difficult with her injured arm.

“Thank you,” she says afterwards.

Mycroft tilts his head in acknowledgement before looking back at last night’s sad attempt at a shelter. “We’ll need to do this up proper.”

“Perhaps we should split up,” Anthea suggests. “With my arm, I’m not much help for this right now. Why don’t I walk the island perimeter, see if I can find anything useful? Who knows, we might not be the only ones here.” Mycroft seriously doubts this, but he knows Anthea needs to feel useful in order to keep herself going.

“Don’t stray too far.”

Anthea nods and heads out along the shore. Mycroft watches her for a moment. Then he turns his attention back to their dilapidated shelter.

—-

It’s hotter today. Sweat forms on Mycroft’s head and drips down his back. With Anthea still gone, he considers forgoing modesty and removing his undershirt. However, knowing his fair skin’s proclivity to sunburn, he keeps it on. Instead, he removes his shoes, jogs down the beach and dips his head briefly into the waves, trousers soaked to the knees. For a fraction of a second he remembers the terror of the crash, of battling both flames and incoming water, the sensation of near-drowning.

He pulls up abruptly, heart pounding. The cool water drips down his hair, pooling on his shoulders, wetting his shirt. The sun reflecting off the waves is blinding. He squints, hoping desperately to see some sign of life on the horizon, a boat, a helicopter, something. There’s nothing, of course, so he returns to the shelter.

Eventually he weaves enough branches and leaves together to create a shaded canopy that shouldn’t collapse at the slightest breeze. The interior of the shelter is still unrefined. Mycroft attempts to lie down under the canopy. Already, it feels cooler. The dirt is still hard and uncomfortable, leaving him longing for the comfort of his bed. He closes his eyes and sighs.

A few minutes later, he hears a rusting in the grass and sits up startled.

“My, what a lovely chateau!”

Mycroft squints as his eyes adjust to the light. Anthea’s form stands silhouetted against the sky. Her hands are full with something. “Only the best for you, my dear,” he replies wryly.

There’s four thuds in quick succession. Mycroft looks down to see that Anthea has dropped what look to be empty coconut shells.

“There’s a few coconut trees down that way,” she gestures towards where she came from. “Most of what was on the ground was either rotten or already eaten. Could be nice, if we can get to them before the bugs do. Figure how to knock some down. I wasn’t keen on waiting for one to bonk me on the head. I found these as well,” She shrugs her shoulder to show off the bundle of fruit nestled in the crook of her good arm. “Any idea what they are?”

Mycroft examines the fruit. It has a thick oval shape with pointed ends. The peel is silky smooth, yellow with brown splotches. “It’s quite similar to a banana,” he says, clearly code for, _Haven’t the foggiest._

“Shape’s different though. Less… male.”

Mycroft ignores the comment, peeling open the fruit. The flesh is definitely reminiscent of a banana, except it’s full of seeds. ”Perhaps it’s a wild variety of banana. They might have bred the modern fruit seedless.”

“Or they bred it to be edible. How can we know it’s not poisonous?”

They can’t know, not without trying the fruit for themselves. “Best not to risk it.” He sets the fruit down. “Where can I find these coconut trees?”

—-

Mycroft sets out towards the trees alone, forcing Anthea to sit and rest in the shade a while. Luckily, the trees are not too far from where they’ve set up camp—Mycroft would hate to move their shelter to be closer to their only source of sustenance—and he finds them easily. Many of the palm leaves look bent and broken, and there’s a good amount of debris on the ground below, likely as a result of the storm.

On the ground, there are coconuts in varying states of decay. He digs through the pile of leaves and fruit, trying to find something salvageable. A rustling in the grass startles him, and he jumps back when he realises a large snake is the cause. He watches the creature retreat up a rocky embankment and into the thick forest.

Unsettled, Mycroft returns to the pile. Most of the coconuts are old and rotten, split open and attracting buzzing insects. In the rubble, he finds two that appear young and undamaged, probably knocked down before they were completely ripe. He finds one unbroken mature coconut as well, although he has to swat away the flies circling it.

He gathers the few good coconuts and looks to the treetops. The fruit still holding on appear green and new, and likely won’t fall out for a while. Nearby he can see quite a few trees bearing the odd bananas. Judging by the plentiful amount of fruit each tree carries, he imagines these could sustain them for a long time, if they were sure they were safe.

In the meantime, the coconuts would have to do. He treks back along the shoreline until he reaches their camp. There, Anthea has amassed a large pile of sticks and grass. He raises his eyebrow.

“I thought maybe— we could cook the fat bananas, maybe then they’d be alright.”

“I’m not willing to risk it and you shouldn’t either.” Mycroft places the coconuts in front of her. “I found a few that look salvageable.”

“How do we open them, then?” She reaches with her good arm and rolls one over in her palm.

“Perhaps a very pointy rock…” Mycroft begins to shuffle through the dirt. “There should be water inside. We’ll want to keep it contained as much as possible.”

They first attempt to break open the more mature coconut. Anthea holds it down while Mycroft drives a sharp stone into it. He makes a few controlled jabs, steadily hitting with more and more pressure until, in one swift motion, the coconut violently cracks open. White meat spatters onto the pair and water drips in rivers down the rocks and through the dirt. Immediately Anthea sinks to the ground, lapping up the rivulets dripping over the rocks. Mycroft grabs a chunk of coconut and tears at the inside with his teeth. The warm flesh wets his tongue, coating the inside of his mouth, and he savours the few bites it offers. He finds another chunk and wipes off some dirt before repeating the action. Tiny hunks litter the area; he was clearly too forceful in breaking it open. Anthea gathers a small handful and puts it in her mouth, shell and all. Her cheeks expand with the movement of her jaw as she sucks out the meat before spitting out the empty pieces of shell.

It doesn’t take them long to clean most of the pieces of coconut. When they open the other two coconuts, Mycroft is much more careful. The younger coconuts have much less meat but are filled with water, and the pair glug the liquid down greedily.

—-

It’s twilight by the time they’ve finished. They watch the trees sway as the breeze picks up.

 _It’s not been enough,_ Mycroft thinks, no longer riding the high of those few quick morsels. He’s less thirsty but still unquenched, and he's so very hungry, but the sun is setting and they can’t do much by moonlight. His muscles are aching, his skin tender where it’s been sunburned. They’ve accomplished nothing, really, just slotted a few sticks together like jolly scouts on a camping trip. They should have spent the day finding a way to signal rescuers or plotting their escape. He tries to reign in these thoughts. Right now, they need to conserve their energy. _Keep calm and carry on,_ he huffs humourlessly.

Using their outer clothes as pillows, Mycroft and Anthea lay under the makeshift canopy and try to get some rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be on vacation next week, so the next update will be sometime at the end of May/beginning of June. Thanks for reading! Please leave feedback if you feel so inclined~ :)


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft’s twelve again, increasingly self-conscious about his expanding waistline in spite of Mummy’s insistence that it will even out once he’s hit his growth spurt. It’s a rare hot day in England and his family is spending that time at the beach. Father walks along the shore with Eurus, helping her collect shells. Sherlock is splashing in the water, Victor by his side and brandishing a foam noodle as though it were a sword. Now and then, Mummy glances at the pair of them from over her book, an amused smile on her lips. Mycroft lays in the sand beside her. Rocks poke his back and thighs, no matter which position he tries. Just when he thinks he’s found a comfortable spot, the smell of smoke fills his nostrils. 

He sits up abruptly and turns toward the house. It’s on fire, flames pouring from the second-story windows. He tries to tell his mother only to find that she’s no longer sitting beside him. He looks toward the beach to see that the rest of his family has disappeared as well. In his confused and terrified state, he notices a plane sitting idly on the sand. He gets on, thinking he might spot his family from a higher vantage point. 

The plane takes off, and now he can somehow see through the roof and into the house. Eurus is chasing Sherlock around with a fork. Mummy is chopping carrots while chastising her children. Father is humming a tune while sweeping the kitchen. All seem oblivious to the house burning down around them.

Mycroft is about to tell the pilot to bring them lower when the smell of smoke reaches his nose once more. With a jolt, he realises that the plane is also on fire, and suddenly careening through the air and towards his family home. “Turn around!” He screams, “Turn it around, you’re going to hit the house! We’re going to die!” 

He wakes with a jolt. 

It takes him a moment to realise he’s sitting upright on the island, a gentle breeze wafting towards him. A few metres away, Anthea is poking at a small bundle of smoking leaves.

“Everything alright, sir?” She tilts her head in his direction. "Handkerchief's to your right."

Mycroft rubs his eyes and stumbles to his feet. He takes the handkerchief and repeats his actions of the previous morning, swiping it across leaves still glistening with dew for the smallest drink.

He’s surprised he managed any sleep at all; the last memory he had before the dream was the sky gradually getting lighter, signalling the beginning of that morning’s sunrise. It’s still early enough that he’s not sweating much.

In contrast, Anthea has a wet sheen pebbling on her forehead. She's awkwardly twisting a stick back and forth into a notch on a log, a task proving difficult with her broken arm. All she’s managed is a lot of smoke. 

“Care for some assistance?” Mycroft offers, then raises his eyebrow when she glares at him. “I mean no offence, but as I have use of both of my arms, I might have better luck.”

She sighs, drops the stick. “No real need for it now, yeah?” 

“Fire might be necessary later. Would be good to have something started.”

Anthea waves him off. “We’ll have to keep it going once it’s started. Let’s not waste resources yet.”

Mycroft shrugs and lets the matter rest. He’s somehow more tired than he was the day before, his mind still clinging to those tantalisingly few hours of sleep. “How did you sleep?”

Anthea’s answering snort is answer enough for Mycroft, though she tells him all the same. “I didn’t.”

That’s roughly 72 hours she’s gone without sleep. Back in London, their individual schedules rarely allowed for more than five hours of sleep. Though Mycroft could operate on that, he would always opt for full night’s rest and a late morning lie-in when he could. Anthea had a busier social life than her boss, and her off-day sleep schedule was likely much less consistent than Mycroft’s.

But three days without sleep worked for no one but his brother. 

“Let’s go for a walk.”

—-

They walk slowly along the treeline. The island is far from the crystalline beaches of Greece or the Virgin Islands. Instead of fine sand, jagged rocks poke from the ground along most of the shoreline. Mycroft tries to assess their options. They could look for shellfish when the tide goes out, maybe set out a few nets. He’s never been one for fishing but he thinks he could be persuaded to pick up the hobby now.

They duck into some thicker brush to go toilet. At one point, Anthea yelps, and Mycroft rushes over just as she’s clumsily buckling her trousers back together.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, wiping her hand against a few leaves, “there was a snake,” she laughs breathlessly, “scared the pants off me. God, there are  _ snakes _ here?”

Mycroft helps her manoeuvre through the dense thicket of plants, cautiously so as not to step on their slithering neighbour. They head back towards the coconut trees in the hopes that more fruit has fallen. But all they find is the ones on the ground further decomposing. They continue further along the treeline until a tall stone peninsula blocks their path. They can’t climb in their state and they’d have to battle the thick tropical forest once they reached the top. Just to be certain, Mycroft wades into the water along the wall’s edge until it’s clear that they’d have to swim against the waves in order to get around it. They can save exploring that side of the island for a while, he thinks.

As he wades back to dry land, Anthea calls out to him. She’s bending over a few jagged rocks and reaching into the crevice with her good arm. “Look at this,” she says and pulls out a colourful piece of plastic.

As Mycroft makes his way over to her, he spies more than a few pieces of rubbish strewn about the rocks. At first, he thinks that maybe this is evidence of more people nearby on the island. Upon inspection, he realises that the greater likelihood is this trash came straight from the ocean. Although he’s had conversations about environmentalism in his field of work, it was never his main area of interest. He has no idea how far and from where this debris might have travelled.

“Might be useful,” Anthea remarks, and the two of them begin gathering items. 

Mycroft collects an armful of debris and rummages through it. His mind shuffles through what they could do with each item, but repurposing rubbish for solitary island life isn’t his preferred brand of creative problem solving. He thinks,  _ That’s sharp, perhaps it could be a makeshift knife, _ or,  _ we might use that to store food. _ He can’t think of any purpose beyond weapons and cookery, so advises Anthea look for anything they can safely use over a fire.

He’s bending over to pick up what he think might have once been a children’s toy when he hears Anthea gasp and call him over. “Can you get that?” she asks, pointing to something lodged between two large rocks.

He does as she says, fishing out a warped square sheet of plastic almost twice as wide as he is. 

“That thing’s travelled far, hasn’t it?” Anthea says, looking it up and down. “Wonder what it used to be.”

Mycroft shrugs. “You’ve an idea for this?”

Anthea hums in affirmative. “Let’s get as much as we can and bring it back to camp.”

They collect an assortment of dented cans and unrecognisable rubbish. Anthea balances as much as she can in the crook of her bad arm. The sun is high in the sky at this point, and Mycroft aches for sustenance and the comfort of a cool shower. His skin is red-hot from sunburn now, to the point where he’s afraid of it blistering.

Upon arrival, they dump the items into the sand before retreating into the shade of their shelter. They’ve only been sitting for a minute when Anthea returns to her feet, grunting as she does so.

“Grab that,” she says, pointing to the plastic sheet, “and one of those coconut shells. The big half that’s still intact.”

Mycroft reigns in the instinct to baulk at Anthea’s orders, her  _ insubordination _ , since at this point it’s probably best that they forgo the employee-employer relationship. Mycroft’s certainly not equipped for the survivorman lifestyle so he’ll gladly defer to Anthea in this instance. He takes the plastic and the coconut shell and follows Anthea to a small patch of sand.

She gets to her knees and begins to dig with her good hand. Mycroft does the same as she directs him on how deep and wide the hole must be.

Afterwards, they take the coconut shell down the shore, scooping up water before returning and dumping the water into it. The sand quickly absorbs the water, so they repeat this several times until a small puddle is sustained in the hole. Then they put the empty coconut shell in the centre like a boat.

“Let’s secure the plastic along the edges—yeah, rocks will do,” Anthea continues to direct Mycroft as he drapes the plastic over the hole and places rocks at the corners to keep it in place. They put one more rock in the centre of the plastic sheet, weighing it down in the middle.

“So—condensation." Mycroft says, understanding the purpose of the device.

Anthea nods. "It's called a solar still. Should collect on the surface of the plastic and drip into the coconut. Think you're supposed to use thinner plastic but with any luck we'll have a little something extra in the afternoons."

Mycroft is doubtful the device will yield much water, but Anthea seems proud of the accomplishment and they both need to keep their spirits up.  _ The worst thing you can do in a survival situation is give up,  _ Mycroft recalls from his field agent training,  _ a positive attitude saves lives _ .

Anthea's beginning to sway on her feet, so he forces her to sit under the canopy once more. "Mycroft," she rasps, "I'm so hungry."

"I'll see if I can find something for us to eat."

"How long d'you think the still will take?"

"A while. Leave it until I get back. Just sit and rest."

"My head hurts. I'm bloody starving."

"Sit," Mycroft commands, holding her shoulders to keep her in place. "And I'll get you food."

She relents, and Mycroft feels unsettled as he leaves.

——-

He heads back to their only known source of food, formulating different plans along the way. He's no idea how long it takes for a single coconut to grow to maturity, and they'll certainly have to find something else to survive on, but for now it will have to be enough.

Mycroft has often wished he'd been a more healthy and active child, so that he could have adopted the lifestyle early in his life. If he'd been more interested in sports or the outdoors his personal life would likely have benefitted. His intellect won him his career but he's lived long enough to recognise how physical challenges can shape a person's character. Man didn’t go millennia battling armies and conquering nations by intellect alone. Left in this lawless arena without his rank and influence he’s feeling very much out of his depth.

Once he arrives at his destination, he gazes at the collection of fruit trees.  _ Don’t just sit on your laurels _ , he thinks to himself,  _ Anthea is sleep-deprived and sunburnt and she cannot afford to go without food for long. _

He finds a few fist-sized rocks along the shore and lobs them at the coconut trees. The sound of these pitiful attempts brushes through the treetops. He gives it a few more goes, even manages to hit a coconut more than once, but all this yields is dull thuds echoing across through the trees.

He's not going to knock them down this way, he realises.

He stands for a beat, scanning the trunks and the climbing plants draped across the expanses between branches. His hands are clenched, and he takes a moment to shake his muscles loose. Slowly, he approaches one of the trees. Ocean waves are drowned out by the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

Even as a child, he rarely attempted this. And back then, he had branches and the youthful feeling of invincibility to guide him. The coconut tree has no low-hanging limbs, and he has to wrap his arms and legs around the trunk in a bear hug to keep from falling. He only manages to scale a few feet before losing his grip and sliding back down. 

Huffing, he attempts to climb again, this time making it a few further feet before his foot slips out from under him and he has to jump back to the ground. He wipes away the sweat forming on his brow. With renewed energy, he rushes the tree trunk and hooks his arms around it once more.

The sun hangs low in the sky by the time he’s broken the halfway point. His muscles are still torn and aching from the swim, and he’s afraid after today he’ll have to drag himself along the beach to get back to camp. He takes a moment to catch his breath, turning his gaze toward the horizon. There’s no planes or helicopters in the sky coming to rescue them, just the setting sun and thick clouds in the distance. A droplet of sweat trickles down Mycroft’s temple and he wipes it on his shoulder.

He continues his ascent, noting the sway in the breeze as he nears the treetops. Finally close enough to reach out and touch one of the coconuts, he pauses to make sure his legs are secure. It takes him a few tries to feel comfortable stretching his body toward the fruit.

As his hand wraps around a coconut, he feels something tickle the back of his palm. Going very still, Mycroft keep his eyes fixed on the creature—a hairy spider, nearly as large as his fist. It travels slowly over his hand, pausing over the indents between his fingers, before ambling around and off the coconut.

Once the beast is safely out of the way, Mycroft secures his grip and pulls, twisting the fruit back and forth. The coconut resists more than he expects, and he has to stop and adjust his grip on it several times. Finally, with one good tug, Mycroft dislodges the coconut.

The motion has him swinging backwards with the momentum and—before he has time to think or cry out—he loses his hold of the trunk and plummets to the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft awakens to a loud ringing in his ears. It takes him a moment to realise where he is—namely, laying in a thick pile of leaves and twigs on the ground. His senses come back to him quickly—he just _fell from a tree, what was he thinking climbing it_ —and he tries to get his bearings. The sun is hanging in roughly the same position since he looked at it last. Leaves twirl down through the path his body created as it fell. He must have only been unconscious for only a moment, a fact which he is supremely grateful for.

He sits up, groaning and clutching his head. The pain is throbbing and leaving him dizzy. It takes him a moment to get his feet under him. A wave a nausea hits him the moment he stands and he has to fight to keep from upending the meagre contents of his stomach. With one hand on the tree trunk, he stumbles forward and dry heaves, once. His mouth fills with saliva and his nostrils feel oddly moist. Head down, leaning against the tree, he waits for the nausea to pass.

When it feels safe to move again, he stays along the treeline, stopping periodically each time the dizziness returns. It’s during one of these breaks, smacking his parched lips together, that he realises he left the coconut behind. He swivels around, leaning against the tree when the motion jars him back into dizziness. He waits for it to pass. Then he heads back to the spot where he fell.

It is dusk by the time he returns. There’s a number of broken twigs and leaves left in the place where he landed. The thick ground cover he was once grateful for is now an annoyance as he searches for where the fruit might have fallen.

The darkness is creeping in and Mycroft is growing desperate; he frantically digs through the underbrush in search of this one small point of sustenance.

His hand grazes something wet and he gasps, finding the remains of his efforts dashed against the ground. Broken chunks of coconut flesh are spread all along the rocks and leaves of the dense forest floor. He gathers as many pieces as he can into his arms. Most of the chunks are so small they slip through his fingers. He collects what he can, eating a few pieces as he does so. Finally, he takes his small armful and heads back towards camp.

The moon is mostly obscured by clouds, which makes the trip much more difficult than he expected. He’s still fighting off momentary periods of dizziness and more than once manages to trip over a rock jutting out from the ground.

Eventually he spots their shelter, the rooftop canopy swaying in the breeze. The moment he arrives, he realises something alarming—that is, he can’t see Anthea anywhere.

“Anthea,” Mycroft calls, “I’m back.” He waits for a reply. “Anthea!”

The swaying leaves are the only thing to answer him.

He surveys more of their camp. Not much has changed since his departure a few hours ago. His and Anthea’s jackets have been ruffled—she must have at least attempted to get some rest earlier. He hopes that she’s only gone to relieve herself. The solar still has been up-ended, whatever moisture that might have accumulated in the coconut shell gone. The collection of leaves and twigs with which Anthea had attempted to start a fire have been disturbed; she must have given it another go unsuccessfully.

He steps over the failed fire pit and into something squishy. He lifts his foot back up again to see the peel of one of the strange bananas they’d discovered earlier.

 _She’s eaten something poisonous and gone off to die somewhere,_ Mycroft thinks, panic rising. Heart thudding, he looks to the ground, desperate to find any sign of where she might have run off. He hopes she travelled somewhere along the treeline where she could leave footprints in the dirt. If she went somewhere over the rocks, he has no way of tracking her there.

He leaves the coconut pieces on his coat and paces around camp in the hopes he might see something. The darkness obscures any detail that Mycroft might have normally been able to parse out. For one brief moment he looks out towards the sea, considering the possibility that Anthea drowned out there. He shakes the thought off. Yes, she is sleep-deprived and thirsty, but she isn’t delirious and she doesn’t have a death wish.

He glances back at the peel of the unknown fruit.

He _hopes_ she doesn’t have a death wish.

A rustling sound in the woods has him swivelling away from the ocean. “Anthea!” He calls again.

"Sir," Anthea's voice responds, "help me!"

He rushes in the direction of her voice. The thick brush is more difficult to get through than he would expect. "What's wrong? Where are you?"

He follows the sound of crunching twigs, branches, and Anthea's moans of distress. “I just-” he hears her pant, “ow, ugh! I’m stuck, I’m alright!” When Mycroft finally finds her she’s tangled in vines and struggling to free her bad arm without having to remove it from the sling. Mycroft pulls the plants away to assist her, and she hisses in pain as her arm is jostled in the process.

“What were you doing out there?” Mycroft demands once they’ve reached the clearing. He hands her a few chunks of coconut which she quickly tosses into her mouth before answering. A moment later she is coughing up a small piece of shell which had lodged in her throat.

“Water…” she wheezes between breaths, “was trying to… find water.”

“What about the still?”

She shakes her head. “It not meant… to make much. Just a… small sip, really. Helpful, but we’ll need something more steady.”

Mycroft is fuming. “So your solution is to eat an unfamiliar plant and wander into the woods alone before nightfall?”

“It was the only way to be sure the fruit was safe, and we need water.”

“We don’t just _eat_ things to check for poison,” Mycroft’s voice rises in anger, “how stupid are you?”

“At least I tried _something!_ ” Anthea shouts.

“And what do you think _I_ was doing, getting a tan and sipping a mimosa?”

“I think you’re totally unprepared to deal with this situation-”

“Oh, because solitary island living is something everyone learns in primary school-”

“You spent an entire afternoon getting one broken coconut-”

“I _fell out a tree_ getting this coconut-”

“And that’s what I’m saying!” Anthea waves her good arm, pitch rising sharply. “You could have _died_ getting _one damn coconut!_ We don’t need a coconut! We need rescuing!”

“And how do you suggest we ensure that?” He twists back and forth, gesturing around them. “Ring up the prime minister? ‘Yes, we’re on an island somewhere south of Asia, would you mind sending someone to pick us up? Oh no, we can’t be more specific. Also, we’ve no phones and are calling via telepathy.’”

“They’ll have to investigate the crash, yeah? They make plans for situations like this!”

“Yes, and those plans don’t include scouring the entire Indian Ocean for two bodies.” Mycroft watches Anthea’s face morph into controlled rage. She clenches her fists, breathes in deeply, pausing for a solid few seconds.

“I swore an oath. To serve Queen and country,” she begins calmly. “To maintain civil liberties and protect the public. I thought,” she takes a controlled breath, “that by assisting you, I was accomplishing that. I thought,” she sputters, losing her temper once more, “I thought you were- they called you- important!”

“Anthea-”

“But they haven’t found you. They _won’t_ find you! All that power and influence and it’s-”

“Anthea-”

“-useless! It doesn’t matter if you live or die. England will ‘keep calm and carry on,’ right? Let’s not waste resources on Mycroft Holmes! Who needs him? Just another cog in the wheel, completely replaceable. I wanted to make a _difference_ , so why the hell did I think I could do that working for you?”

Breathing heavily, she punctuates this statement with a jab of her finger in Mycroft’s direction. Then she brings her arm back down, clenching and unclenching her fist. After a moment she breaks eye contact with Mycroft, directing her gaze towards the ground. As his dizziness has returned, Mycroft finds this a good time to sit down. He steps backwards and slumps onto his backside, waiting for it to pass. When he feels better, he looks back up at Anthea and sighs.

“Are you quite finished?”

She gives a short nod. After walking a few steps toward Mycroft, she folds her legs and sits beside him. They let the sound of the rough seas soothe the tension between them.

Eventually Mycroft speaks. “There are… measures in place, should I be indisposed.”

“I know.”

“They’ll look for us, but—if I did my job correctly—I shouldn’t be needed anymore.”

“Oh, that’s not true. Doesn’t matter if you put a plan in place, they’re still the ones who’ll have to execute it. I’m sure they’re scrambling.”

Mycroft huffs a laugh through his nose. “Probably.”

A gust of wind sends an unexpected chill through the pair. It’s unusually cool compared to last few nights.

“I had to know,” Anthea begins when the wind settles, “we had fruit, I had to know that we weren’t starving while a perfectly good food source sat nearby.”

“You could have died trying.”

“And then you at least would have known it was poisonous. My job is to protect the British government. If I died, it would have been in service to my country.”

“You’re of much better service alive than dead.”

“Not really. One arm’s useless, I’m using half our resources, I nearly drowned you, I couldn’t build our shelter. Pretty poor excuse for a PA if you ask me.”

“You’re sleep-deprived and it’s clouding your judgement.”

“Maybe.”

Mycroft leans back, gaze drifting towards the sky. Tonight there’s very little to see since the moon and stars are still obscured by clouds. The wind picks up again, causing the trees to creak as they sway. He turns his head towards her and smirks.

“How’s this, then? As of today, you’re fired.”

She smiles back. “Hardly official. You can’t offer me redundancy pay.”

“I can’t pay you at all, I’m afraid. Nothing left in the budget.”

“Well, good news is I’m living rent-free now. I’ve no expenses, in fact.”

“Serendipitous timing.”

“Indeed.” Anthea’s staring into the distance now, not particularly focused on anything. She sighs. “Look. I’m sorry, but it worked out, didn’t it? I tried the fat bananas. I’m fine. They’re fine. We have them and the coconuts for food. We have dew and the still for water. We’ll keep looking for more water. We’ll build a fire and send out rescue signals.” She looks Mycroft in the eyes. “We’ll make it.”

Mycroft meets her gaze, sees the fierce determination displayed there. He nods.

“Yes,” is all he says. He thinks, _I have to believe that she’s right._

In the distance, thunder rumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter's still going through a lot of rewrites, so there might be a delay in getting it out. Would love to hear your thoughts! :)


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock’s slightly out of breath and rubbing bruised knuckles, but he can’t seem to wipe the smile from his face as he speaks. _That’s him,_ John thinks, _pleased as punch to show off to an audience_. Across the street, corralled away from the scene by police, a small group of tourists gawk in awe of Sherlock’s deductions. He finishes with a flourish, earning a polite applause from the crowd.

The battered man doesn’t put up any resistance as he’s shoved into the back of the patrol car. One of his eyes is beginning to swell shut, but it still opens comically wide when he sees his assailant wink and saunter away, coat flapping dramatically.

John rolls his eyes at his flatmate’s behaviour; the suspect had been mere millimetres from stabbing Sherlock, yet the detective still felt the need to gloat. John may ordinarily love danger, but he’s seen his friend in enough perilous situations to last several lifetimes and he’s beginning to grow tired of it. Still, John trails alongside his friend, enjoying the thrill of it all.

“Antonio’s?” Sherlock suggests, a light smile on his face.

John checks his watch. “We’ll have to get it to go. Mrs. Hudson has that party tonight, remember?”

“She doesn’t mind babysitting Rosie a few extra hours.”

“We’re normally on a case when that happens. We’ve had our fun for the day, let her have her’s.”

Sherlock shrugs, still riding the high of solving the case. “Fine.” They head in the restaurant’s direction, chatting lightly about the murder.

Somewhere between the arrest site and Antonio’s, Sherlock’s demeanor shifts. He’s got the look he gets when he can’t seem to wrap his mind around a particular clue in a puzzle. Before John can open the restaurant’s front door, Sherlock stops him. “I’ve changed my mind,” he speaks with authority, “I want chips instead.”

Not one to dissuade Sherlock when the man actually wanted to eat, John shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He walks toward a shop they passed just moments ago. 

They’ve only stepped inside when Sherlock says, “Not here, the other chip shop,” and John turns around to see the man’s coat fluttering behind him as he exits the building.

Outside, John has to jog to catch up to his flatmate. Sherlock weaves up and down sidestreets, eyes scanning buildings. John feels a spike of adrenaline mingling with confusion. He wonders if there’s more to the case, if Sherlock spotted someone suspicious.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Testing a theory,” Sherlock replies. His eyes are on a camera just outside a Primark.

“Are you going to explain what it’s all about, then?”

Sherlock ignores him, still staring at the camera. After a moment, he shakes his head. “Forget it.” He turns around abruptly. “Let’s get back to Antonio’s.” John puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to stop him.

“Alright?” He looks at his flatmate carefully. Sherlock nods and pushes past John before he can ask another question.

 _That was odd,_ John thinks.

—-

Over the following few days Sherlock is, for the most part, normal. He eats and crashes on the sofa like he always does after a case. He acquires a diseased spleen from Molly and delights in examining it. The only major difference is he seems distracted, somehow. More than once John sees him pull out his mobile, fiddle around with the touchscreen, hesitating before scoffing and pocketing it once more. When they venture out of the flat Sherlock can barely manage a conversation, eyes periodically roaming the high corners of buildings without explanation.

Three days into this odd behaviour, a sleek black car pulls up alongside 221B. John has just finished giving Rosie her breakfast when he spots it from the window. “Looks like His Royal Highness is here to see you, mate.”

At the table, Sherlock continues peering at the specimen under the microscope as he replies dryly, “Might want to put Rosie to bed before he gives her nightmares.” It’s a typical remark where Sherlock’s brother is concerned, but this time there’s something off about his tone of voice and the tenseness of his shoulders. John frowns.

Then there’s the sound of footsteps and a steady knock at the door. Sherlock doesn’t bother to move from his place at the table, so John calls out, “Come in!” The door opens and John blinks, startled.

The man at the door is not Mycroft. For starters, he’s much younger, with a full head of healthy dark hair. He’s much more handsome as well, possessing a healthy build that John never had even in his army days. In spite of that, this man is much less imposing than Mycroft. Sherlock’s brother radiates authority while this man clearly answers to several someones. John wonders if perhaps Mycroft’s replaced that pretty assistant of his.

“Sherlock Holmes?” The man says. Sherlock raises his left hand but doesn’t answer. The man seems a bit confused but continues. “Your presence is requested at Whitehall.” 

Sherlock still hasn’t looked up, though it’s clear he’s no longer focused on whatever’s under the microscope. “Whatever needs saying can be said here, please.” 

“I’m not at liberty, sir.”

Sherlock pivots his head and glares at the man. “Not to tell the whole story, no. A one sentence summary then, that I might at least prepare myself.”

“It…” the man glances at John before returning to Sherlock, “concerns one Mycroft Holmes, sir.”

Sherlock sits there for a moment, tight-lipped and tense. John’s prepared for a sarcastic reply or a sudden rush of intrusive deductions about the government agent in front of them. Instead, Sherlock bows his head in a stiff nod. He gets up and retrieves his coat from the back of his chair. “Come along, John.”

“It’s not necessary for Dr. Watson to—”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Sherlock whips his head around to face the man, narrowing his eyes. The agent seems momentarily flustered.

“Well, uh, it was advised he might be needed, but it’s, uh, somewhat above his clearance level—”

“And yet you refuse to heed that advice, thus you’re repeatedly snubbed for promotion and your political aspirations will never come to fruition.” He turns to John. “Mrs. Hudson is out, so we’ll need to bring Rosie as well.” He turns back towards the agent. “Car seat’s upstairs, if you’d be so kind.” 

The man gapes for a moment before hurrying up the stairs to John’s room. John busies himself with putting on Rosie’s boots and wrestling her arms into her jacket. She fusses and John considers telling Sherlock to stuff it, he’d be relaxing in the flat with his daughter, thank-you-very-much, but decides against it. Something is seriously bothering Sherlock, and John has a feeling he’d regret it if he didn’t go along with things today.

“You any idea what’s going on, mate?” John asks once the three of them are in the back of the car, the agent opting to sit by the chauffeur in the front passenger seat.

Sherlock’s fists are clenched. He opens his mouth once, giving a tiny gasp of air as if he’s about to speak, then closes it. He turns to stare out the window instead. John contents himself with stroking Rosie’s hair as she babbles happily beside him, knowing Sherlock will tell him eventually.

“We’re no longer under surveillance.” Sherlock says eventually, voice flat.

“By whom? By Mycroft?”

Sherlock nods carefully. “He normally uses CCTV to follow us around. Keep tabs on us. Not Mycroft directly, mind you, but he hires people to do so. He likes to stay informed if something goes awry.”

“But he’s not watching us anymore.”

Sherlock nods again. “Haven’t seen a camera follow us in days.”

“You tried getting in touch with him?”

“Now _that_ would alarm Mycroft. Getting a message from me unprompted.” It’s almost like the normal Sherlock, except he looks as if he’s being held at gunpoint and forced to sit as upright and rigid as possible. He pauses for a moment. “I did try texting him, once. Message said it couldn’t be delivered.”

“Oh,” is all John says, but he’s thinking, _That can’t be good._

They ride on in silence.

—-

Instead of Mycroft’s office, they’re led into Lady Smallwood’s smaller space. 

“Thank you, Martin,” she says to the agent that neither man had bothered to ask a name of. Lady Smallwood offers her hand to Sherlock, then John. Rosie squirms in her father’s arms. “What a doll,” she says, smiling lightly at the child. “Would you mind if we let Martin have her for a moment, Dr. Watson? I’m afraid she’ll be a bit of a distraction for the conversation we’re about to have.”

John swivels back towards Martin, whose face emanates surprise. 

“Er, ma’am—”

“Whenever you like, Martin.” 

The man winces slightly and walks toward John. The moment Martin has her in his arms, Rosie reaches for her father. “Dada, Dada,” she repeats, not exactly whining but clearly not happy with the situation.

“Be back in a moment, darling.”

Lady Smallwood gestures towards the pair of chairs opposite her desk. Sherlock flaps his coat behind him in a practiced move and sits down gracefully. Still, there’s tension radiating from him. John sits in the chair beside Sherlock.

Lady Smallwood folds her hands in front of her and takes a deep breath. She looks at Sherlock and begins.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Holmes. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve brought you here today. I cannot give you many details as they remain confidential, but I’m afraid what I have to say is not very good.” She sighs. “A few days ago, a plane flying over the Arabian Sea lost all contact with Air Traffic Control and disappeared. Neither the plane nor its passengers have been heard from since. The investigation is still ongoing, however... a crash seems most likely. There was a storm that night, and the pilot was fatigued...” she shrugs, “well, it’s all speculation at the moment. Though we cannot rule out an intentional attack, suffice to say we believe it was accidental.”

“Quit dawdling,” Sherlock spits out, “and get to the point.”

Lady Smallwood quirks her mouth in what should be irritation, but there’s something else in her expression. _Pity,_ John realises.

“Although most of the passengers came from Dubai, there were a few British citizens onboard.” 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock says flatly, fists clenched together.

She nods. “I’m very sorry to tell you that your brother was on that plane when it went down.”

It takes John a moment to process. His earlier conversation with Sherlock convinced him that something was wrong with Mycroft, but… dead? It’s unbelievable. John feels lightheaded.

“I’ll answer any questions you have to the best of my ability.” Lady Smallwood says resolutely.

“How—” Sherlock’s voice cracks, and he stops to clear his throat. “How can you be certain he was on the plane?” 

“Several methods. There’s witness statements, a roster of all those onboard at the time of the plane’s departure, we’ve footage of Mycroft entering the airfield, and both his and his assistant’s mobiles pinged the closest tower twenty minutes before the plane was in the air.”

”You’ve not recovered a body then?”

“It’s… unlikely we ever will. There’s a lot of ocean to search. With any luck, we’ll find the flight recorder, get a clearer picture of what happened. But if you were to ask my advice,” she leans over her desk, “I’d tell you not to get your hopes up. I’ve seen a lot of terrible things in my career, Mr. Holmes. Oftentimes, there are no answers.”

Sherlock seems to ponder these comments for a moment. “How does this work, then, someone onboard a missing plane?” He says it quietly.

“We’ve the Presumption of Death Act for incidents such as these. Once we’ve more information, you can apply through Mycroft’s executor. We can work out the details at a later date.”

Looking at his hands clasped in his lap, Sherlock nods. 

A thought occurs to John. “His parents, has anyone…”

“I’ve someone speaking to them at this very moment.”

There’s nothing else John can say. His flatmate is still leaning forward, staring at the carpet now, expression unreadable.

Lady Smallwood stands up and walks over to Sherlock. Putting a hand over his she says, “I’m truly sorry. Mycroft was the very best of men. Please, take as much time as you need.” Then she leaves her office and closes the door behind her.

“John,” Sherlock says once she’s gone. His voice is steady but he’s still unable to look up. He’s blinking rapidly.

John rests a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

They sit there for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wait! I've had a busy last few weeks. This chapter is one I've been excited to post. Hope you like a bit of brother angst!


	7. Chapter 7

Not long after the initial few bouts of thunder, it starts to pour. Mycroft and Anthea rush around setting out coconut shells and pieces of rubbish to catch as much rainwater as possible. They stand in the rain, heads hanging back and mouths open. They’re soaked, grinning like loons, and it’s heaven.

Then the wind picks up as lightning strikes closer and the thunder increases in intensity. The roof to their shelter comes undone, leaves flying through the air. 

Heavy rain pelts their faces, running into their eyes and forcing them to squint as they struggle to find shelter. Panic flows through Mycroft’s veins as he remembers the sensation of diving through the sky, waves crashing over his head one after the other. He and Anthea take cover under the tree canopy.

When the rain finally stops and the wind settles, the two of them take stock of the damage. Their shelter is completely destroyed and their coats are sopping wet. It’s disheartening to see his hard work gone to waste, but Mycroft keeps his attention elsewhere.

“Well, we’ve plenty of rainwater,” Anthea comments. She plucks one of the coconut shells and takes a deep gulp before offering the rest to Mycroft. The sheet of plastic used for their solar still has a good amount of water pooled on its surface, so they carefully pour its contents into the drained shell. Eventually they collect enough rainwater to fill every coconut shell and vaguely concave piece of rubbish they have. Afterwards, they work to clean up their portion of beach.

The storm has cut through much of the heat, and Mycroft and Anthea are shivering in their wet clothes. “This cold won’t last,” Mycroft says while transporting an armful of debris to the treeline. “Best appreciate it while we can.”

Anthea runs a hand gently up and down her broken arm. “In this climate we’ll get loads of rain. Not ideal for building any fires—"

“I’d rather have rain than the past few days’ unrelenting heat.”

“—Not to mention the health hazards of temperature extremes in humid conditions. Have you _seen_ photos of trench foot?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “This isn’t Normandy. Come, keep focused.”

By the time the sun finally peeks over the horizon, they’ve cleared most of the debris. Mycroft gets to work on reconstruction while Anthea goes back to the fruit tree grove to collect any fallen coconuts and fat bananas. They’re both still exhausted and Mycroft hasn’t forgotten that neither of them have had a full night’s rest in days. He’s sure Anthea hasn’t slept at all, and she certainly can’t go on much longer.

This resolves him; he’ll make the comfiest, sturdiest shelter to accommodate them both. The fresh water and promise of food helps alleviate the dread which has been gnawing at him for days. With renewed energy, he heads into the brush to gather as much material as he can.

This time, he’s much more methodical as he builds. First and foremost, it needs to be sturdy. They can't rebuild their shelter every time a storm blows through. They'll still want a canopy to shade them, but this time Mycroft wants to put together some sort of bed. They don’t have the comfiest materials and the threat of encountering some unpleasant creature is much too real to Mycroft, but he still counts this as a priority.

After about an hour, Anthea returns.

"Some fat 'nanas for ya," she quips, handing him a bundle of fruit. In the crook of her bad arm she's carrying two coconuts. "These must've fallen in the storm."

"Very good." Mycroft sits on a large rock and pats the spot beside him. Anthea sits down and lets him take the coconuts from her arm before setting the rest on the ground for later.

Taking one of the proffered "fat 'nanas," Mycroft tentatively peels open the fruit. The off-white flesh is littered with black seeds. He turns to Anthea, who has already taken a large bite and is chewing with difficulty. 

"What's it taste like?"

Anthea spits out a mouthful of seeds and takes a moment to swallow. "Alright. Not very sweet. A bit starchy. Dunno if we should eat the seeds but they’re sort of unavoidable." She shrugs. "It's not as awful as you're imagining."

"Just preparing for whatever assault on the senses this might be." With that, Mycroft opens his mouth and chomps down on the fruit. 

It's very near what Anthea described— rather bland, with the texture of a banana but none of its cloying sweetness. 

It is boring and awful and wonderful all at once.

They stay seated until they've each eaten three fat 'nanas and cracked open both coconuts. Once they're finished, Anthea offers to use the empty shells to collect as much rainwater she can find still pooled along the island perimeter. 

Mycroft would rather she stay put, as she's definitely still suffering from lack of sleep and he'd like to keep an eye on her. But he lets her do as she suggests and brings his attention back to the shelter.

——-

It must be early afternoon by the time Mycroft completes the shelter structure. This time he’s laid a heap of leaves down as cushions. He takes a moment to test the feeling of the plants against his skin. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s at least marginally softer than the rocky ground.

In one corner he’s built another structure to house potential firewood. With how humid it is and the threat of more rain, he wants to keep as much firewood dry as possible. Having a meal has reset his appetite, causing his stomach to grumble incessantly as visions of smoked fish swim through his mind. 

Truthfully, he’s not certain how he’d manage to catch and clean a fish on his own. Aside from childhood recollections of watching his father prepare a catch while on holiday, Mycroft has never partaken in that aspect of fishing. The closest he comes to the experience is two attempts at boiling live lobster. Both times, he found the act of eating something he’d recently made eye contact with more than slightly unsettling. 

When it comes down to it, he’s a man living in the theoretical. One who has dined with world leaders and directed countries into battle but has ultimately _done_ very little. He’s long associated the physical world with out-of-breath runs as a child, embarrassing romantic fumblings in his youth, uncomfortable accommodations in his agent days, and terrifying nights in squalid buildings overseeing Sherlock in his addict phase. 

He’d forgotten to enjoy how truly wonderful those moments could be. How good he felt after working his muscles, how thrilling it was to exchange uncertain touches with another. He’d forgotten the sense of accomplishment that came with meeting each new challenge in his career, how coaxing a smile out of his brother could brighten his whole week.

He’s missed out on a world of challenging hikes and fantastic views and partaking in all new experiences.

 _What a waste of a life,_ he thinks.

He jumps when he hears leaves rustling behind him. He turns and sees a rat nibbling on one of the discarded fruit peels. It pulls the peel towards the woods a few times before noticing Mycroft, dropping it and scurrying away.

Mycroft stares for a moment, lost in thought.

—-

“What’s all this, then?” Anthea asks upon her return to camp.

Mycroft is crouched on the ground by the treeline, delicately balancing a rock upon a stick. He takes a moment to answer her. “There was a rat.”

Anthea quirks and eyebrow as she sets down a coconut shell three-quarters full with water. “You weren’t thinking of trapping it?” She pauses, waiting for a response as he continues to work. “I draw the line at eating _rats,_ Mycroft!”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “Who said anything about eating them?” Then he sighs as the trap falls apart. “I’d rather not have one running across my leg in the middle of the night. Or getting into our food and water.”

“Yes, because we’ve loads of food to spare.”

Still resetting the trap, it takes Mycroft a moment to respond. “We won’t with that attitude.”

“Well,” Anthea snorts, “If we run out of food, I s’pose rats will be useful. Not that I’m keen on dying of disease.”

“Plenty of nations eat rats to this day.”

Anthea shakes her head. “I’ll never forgive you if you give me the plague.”

Rock finally set in place, Mycroft sits back. Too tired to smirk, he gestures to the shelter. “If you please.”

Anthea shuffles over and sits in the crude bedding. The leaves rustle under her weight as she shifts to find a comfortable position.

Mycroft suddenly feels nauseous. He tenses his muscles and grips his forearms tightly, observing the stark white his fingerprints leave behind upon release. 

“You should get out of the sun, sir.” Anthea pats the pile of leaves opposite her. Unwilling to argue, Mycroft slowly staggers to his feet and takes the few short steps toward her. Then he gingerly sinks to his knees before flopping onto his back, leaves rustling loudly.

Anthea stretches between their bodies and grabs the coconut shell before handing it to Mycroft. Propping himself up by one elbow, Mycroft tips the shell into his mouth and takes a few generous sips.

“There’s a cliffside that way,” Anthea gestures to the woods, “Has a little waterfall. Think it might be runoff from the rain. Couldn’t reach it with my bum arm but,” she half-shrugs, “good to know it’s there.”

Still dizzy, Mycroft grunts in acknowledgement before setting the coconut shell down and laying on his back once more.

“Like I said before, we should get plenty of rain in this climate,” Anthea chimes, “If we can figure a way to keep a reserve of water, I think we’ll be all right in that regard.”

“Hm.”

“All we need now is to get a fire going and pray someone sees the smoke.”

“Mhm.”

“Care to share with the class, Mister Holmes?”

Mycroft scrunches his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to voice his thoughts, but knows she’ll persist pestering him until he answers. “You forget you also said this rain’s not very helpful if we’re looking to build a fire. Not to mention the humidity.”

“You’ve got our little firewood storage,” Anthea gestures to the structure he built beside their shelter, “Things’ll dry in there. We'll manage. Besides, wet wood gives off more smoke. Should be easier to see from the sky."

“Have you heard _anything_ flying overhead since we got here? A helicopter? A single boat?”

“Not yet.”

“I just don’t think we should bank all our hopes on a rescue that might not be coming.”

“It’s not come _yet,_ Mycroft. Someone’ll find us. We’ll alert them and they’ll _get us out of here._ ” Anthea says, with a fierceness that Mycroft dare not contradict. He sighs instead.

“Do you know how to start a fire with wet materials, then?”

Anthea smirks. “It’s simple. Takes a while, but we’ve got—” she yawns “—all the time in the world now, eh?”

— 

Anthea directs Mycroft on what to do, and together they tear away bark and gather as many small bits for kindling as they can find.

The sunset glows bright orange as they sit in the dirt. Anthea rests her good arm on her knee, head in her hand, and watches Mycroft clumsily twist one stick into a log, hoping to create enough friction to spark the kindling into flames. 

After one too many critiques of his poor form, Mycroft throws the stick to the ground and barks back in anger. “I’m sorry, do you want to have a go since I’m so clearly inferior?”

“I will if you like,” Anthea says, unfazed, “because I must admit, watching you is a bit like watching my great aunt navigate a Google search.” She ignores Mycroft’s glare. “Look, I know what I’m talking about, OK? So if you could just reel in the omniscient act, that’d be lovely.”

”Oh, my apologies,” Mycroft says, rolling his eyes, “I didn’t realise you were the arbiter of all things wilderness survivor.”

She smirks tiredly. “Moreso than you.”

“I went through the same basic training as you.”

“I’m not talking about _basic training,_ ” Anthea laughs, “Come on. You can’t tell me your parents ever took you camping, did they? Made you join the scouts? You? Of course not!”

Mycroft returns to attempting fire. “Right. And you spent every holiday at the moors, of course?”

“Oh, obviously,” Anthea chuckles, “You know me, rugged as they come.”

Tension soothed, Mycroft lets the conversation drift away for a moment. He concentrates on the task in front of him, watching the log begin to smoke from friction. He lets the sound of the tides’ ebb and flow wash over him. Then the stick he was twisting snaps in his hands, and both of them gasp in surprise.

“Damn,” Anthea glances at the horizon where the sun has almost disappeared from view. “You’ve got another—” she pauses as Mycroft holds out another stick for her to inspect, “— ah, yeah, that’ll do.”

Mycroft resumes spinning the new stick onto the log. He notices Anthea’s eyes roving the ocean— _for boats perhaps,_ he wonders—and rubbing her bad arm again— _she’s in pain,_ he thinks—and decides to cut into whatever dark thoughts she’s having. “Might I ask,” he clears his throat, “how you came to be such a skilled adventurer?”

Anthea exhales a laugh through her nose and turns her attention back towards Mycroft. “Not really skilled by any means. But I did go camping and hiking a lot as a kid.” She smiles. “My dad went to grad school in Australia. Still goes on about it. He and his mates out there were real outdoorsmen and he’s never lost the interest. Used to take us kids out camping whenever he could,” she half-shrugged, “Well, more like forced us out camping. It was never really my thing.”

Mycroft knows of her father’s years as an international student. He knows that the man tore his ACL in a rugby incident, an injury from which he still feels pain. He knows that this incident drove Anthea’s father into the less physically challenging world of politics. He knows it was her father’s boredom in his low-level position—his true position, not the cover story low-level position of Mycroft’s sort—that led Anthea to choose the more exciting role of a field agent. 

This was before she’d decided that all her father’s talk of stuffy pencil-pushers was unfounded, and that she didn’t need to be dodging bullets and enacting disguises every day in order to feel fulfilled. In fact, she rather enjoyed the subtle challenge of consorting with the sleazy political elite.

These were some of the many things Mycroft learned about Anthea when he’d first considered hiring her—his background checks were nothing if not thorough. 

It seems different, somehow, learning these things through her.

“Still—if there’s one thing Dad drilled into us, it was the importance of fire.”  

Mycroft glances at Anthea. She’s looking back over the horizon, where the sky is now fading from a vibrant orange into a dusky blue. Mycroft’s forearms are beginning to cramp. He takes a moment to shake out his hands. Anthea turns back towards him, lips downturned. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I’d help if I could, truly.”

“Not your fault,” Mycroft says, rubbing his right wrist. He sighs. “I don’t think we’ll get it going tonight, though.”

Anthea looks away again, blinking quickly. She runs a hand over her mouth. “Are you sure?” Her question is muffled by her palm.

“It's still too wet, even if we got it going it wouldn't last long,” Mycroft reasons, “and the light from the flames will be minimal at best. Might as well wait ‘til morning.”

Nocturnal insects are beginning to chirp sounds through the dusk air. The ocean is calm, its waves signalling a peaceful evening. Anthea drops her hand and wraps it around her bad arm. She takes a breath, shuddering upon exhale, then shrugs. 

“It’s just—I’d feel better if we had a fire.” Her words are soft and hesitant.

Mycroft blinks. He lets her message sink in. She would be comforted by a fire, the knowledge that they might at least have what it takes to stay a few more days. She doesn’t have her father here for guidance, nor a special operations board for protection. All she has is her boss and a few pieces of fruit.

 _She’s terrified,_ he thinks.

There’s little Mycroft can do to soothe her, he knows. He’s also frightened, though exhaustion is winning out at this moment. The only words he could offer would be ones confirming her worst fears— _yes, we are going to die out here,_ and, _no, I don’t imagine it will be quick and painless._ Words won’t do in this instance, he realises. 

But Mycroft can remember his few years as an only child—the security he felt being held by his mother, having his hair tousled by his father or holding hands between them both. Before he’d decided that big brothers were much too mature for that sort of thing, he knew that comfort didn’t always come in the form of words.

So Mycroft gets up and reaches out a hand for Anthea.

She looks at him in confusion for a moment before taking it.

He leads them to their makeshift shelter, instructs her to lay down, then gets in beside her. He scoots closer towards her until his chest is resting against her back.

“Sir?” Anthea’s return to the more formal address highlights her obvious uncertainty. She cranes her neck to see him.

Mycroft shushes her before draping an arm around her middle. “Sleep,” he says, closing his eyes, “Or cry, if you have to. But afterwards—go to sleep. If you go one more day without it you’ll drive us both to madness.”

He can feel her eyes on him and does his best not to open his own. His head has resumed pounding and he has to resist the urge to swipe a droplet of sweat from his brow.

After a while, Anthea’s hand finds his in the dark.

“Goodnight,” she whispers.

And not long after, she drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm sure these chapters are starting to feel repetitive, but pretty soon they'll be at a place where I can move a little away from the nitty gritty survival details and into that sweet angst and emotion ;)  
> Let me know your thoughts!


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft’s senses come back to him slowly. 

He’s facing the shelter wall, warm rays of light streaming through the slats in the roof. There’s a bird somewhere nearby calling to another one further away. He rolls onto his back and turns his head towards Anthea. Last night, he’d waited until she was sound asleep before pulling away from her—their combined body heat far too uncomfortable in this climate. Luckily his movement hadn’t disturbed her slumber.

Now he watches her shoulders hitch slightly with the motion of her breath, a silent assurance of her persistent existence. He turns his head back, closes his eyes, and lets the sound of the ocean waves and wildlife wash over him.

It’s almost peaceful.

—-

When Anthea awakens, they collect dew the same way they had the previous few mornings. Anthea resets the solar still while Mycroft checks the rat traps. Finding them undisturbed, he returns to their camp and consults with Anthea.

“Yesterday, you said there was a waterfall?”

She leads him along the shoreline and into the woods until they reach a large stone cliff with a thin stream of water trickling down it.

“There was more before,” Anthea says, running her fingertips under the stream, “Think it was just runoff from the rain. But if it rains quite a bit…”

“We’ll have a steady source of water,” Mycroft finishes.

They’ll need to find a way to store it, and to purify its contents when it’s been sitting out for too long.

But it’s there, and that gives them enough hope to carry on.

—-

They return to the camp, a bit of water in tow. Mycroft fumbles with a few logs and sighs. “Still damp. Let’s leave these in the sun.” Anthea nods and assists Mycroft in moving the logs out of the shade. Once finished, they both sit back under their shelter canopy.

Mycroft stretches his legs in front of him. His calves are feeling the effects of overuse. His chest and shoulders are only now beginning to feel recovered from his long swim with Anthea in tow.

Her in mind, Mycroft directs his gaze upon his former assistant. She’s leaning back on one arm, eyes closed. Her normally prim and and well-styled hair is more dishevelled than he’s ever seen, fringe swaying in the breeze. Mycroft scratches his growing stubble, knowing he’s not faring much better. He eyes the back of his hand where a sunburn is beginning to peel.

They’re a mess, the both of them.

"So," he begins, "we’ve some time."

“Mm,” Anthea replies, glancing at Mycroft before returning her gaze to the sea. "Best get used to being bored.”

 _“Bored!”_ _Sherlock shouts before flopping onto the chair opposite Mycroft’s desk. “I’m bored, all the time. My mind never_ stops _; you can’t tell me yours isn’t the same. Only I’m not a lazy sod like you.” He scratches at the recent track marks on his arm. “At least this way I can keep my mind from thinking of all the best ways to off myself.”_

Mycroft blinks, startled by the memory. He clears his throat. “Shall I— would you like me to, uh, gather breakfast?”

If Anthea notices her companion’s shift in composure, she makes no comment on it. “That’d be lovely, thanks.”

Mycroft gets to his feet, ignoring the strain on his muscles, and heads away from camp.

—-

Up until now, Mycroft had—quite reasonably—been more focused on his own life and safety than that of his family. Although thoughts of England and the life he’d left behind had been ever-present, they’d hardly drifted towards the sentimental. 

It angers him, these feelings bubbling up _now_ of all times.

He can picture his younger brother, arrogant and bratty, blaming Mycroft for choosing to get on a plane when the weather was bound to turn. He envisions his aging parents, horrified, once again holding the false belief that one of their children is dead and gone. He sees his sister, unfazed or even amused by the announcement. 

He wonders when they’ll be informed of the crash. If Sherlock will deduce his disappearance ahead of time. If any of them will grieve him. Not that he wants them to break down because of it, but he hopes that he might at least be missed. 

Somehow, he can’t muster the imagination for that.

Instead, images of the family grave plot swim through his head. The soil is undisturbed. A sleek modern stone sits nestled beside older, worn graves. It’s etched simply with a title and two dates. There are no flowers, no weeping mourners. Even the skies refuse to lament; it’s one of those warm, sun-soaked days that has even the grumpiest curmudgeons whistling jolly tunes down the road.

Perhaps the sun is getting to him.

Feeling morose, he takes his time walking toward the fruit trees, letting his feet drag over roots and rocks, uncaring at his clumsiness. He kicks debris aside in fits of childish anger. _Sod everyone,_ he thinks, _I’m allowed this._ Everything he’s done for his family, his country, the world at large, and this is how he’s repaid. If he believed in a higher power, he’d be cursing its name.

Upon reaching the tree grove, he plucks one of the fat bananas, sits down, and tears the peel away. He chomps down forcefully. 

Slowly, his feelings of resentment are replaced by a sense of hopelessness. 

Even if by some miracle they manage to hold out for a while, what then? Endless days of monotony? He wouldn’t survive having nothing to do but send smoke signals and eat the same two things for days on end. Anthea is right—waiting for rescue is going to be incredibly tedious. Though his need for mental stimulation has never been as dire as his brother’s, it horrifies him to realise that he’ll be living out the rest of his life in excruciating simplicity.

 _No,_ he chastises himself, _not the rest of our lives. We’ll be rescued. Maybe not right away, but soon._ The idea still seems ludicrous, so he tries to bend the thought into something more believable. _It will take a while. First they’ll scout where the plane was last seen on radar. Then they’ll expand the search outward. It will take time, maybe weeks on end. We can hold on ‘til then._  

Somewhat self-soothed, Mycroft finishes the fruit and tosses the peel into the woods. He stands up, knees cracking audibly, and returns to the trees. When he has a few fat ‘nanas secured in the crook of his arm, he heads back towards the shoreline. He glances at the rocks in the water. The tide is low, revealing more bits of rubbish in the crevices between the stones. He blinks at the irregular objects glistening in the sun.

Setting the fruit down, he sinks to a squat along the water. He sifts through the gravel. Something pokes his fingertip and he pulls away with a gasp. He checks to make sure he hasn’t broken the skin before continuing to dig. When he finds what he’s looking for, he holds it against the sunlight. Unbidden, a smirk spreads across his face.

 _If Sherlock could see me now,_ he thinks.

—-

“You’ve been busy,” Mycroft says upon returning to camp.

There’s more logs in their firewood storage than before, as well as several small piles of sticks scattered around their camp. Anthea, crouched over one such collection, raises her head at Mycroft’s arrival. She lifts her good arm to shield her eyes from the sun.

“Find anything? I’m bloody starving.”

Arms full, Mycroft gestures with a shrug of his shoulder. “Could you— ah, thank you,” he replies as Anthea takes a few of the fat ‘nanas from him and sets them down.

“What’s all that then?” She asks as Mycroft places the rest of his items onto the ground.

“I’m thinking this,” he shows her a thin twisted piece of metal, “Could be a hook and this,” he picks up a long frayed reed, “could be a line.”

“Ah, so you’re an angler now?” Anthea paws at the pile of vines and grass jumbled at Mycroft’s feet. “And the rest?”

“Could make a net out of these,” he stretches the tangle of thin green fibres between his fists “or another rod. And—oh, careful with that,” he warns as Anthea turns a jagged slab of rock in her hand.

“Well… this could certainly do some damage.”

“That’s the idea.”

"Plenty of ways to skin a cat," she says as she sets the rock down, taking a banana in its place. “Or scale a fish, as the case may be. What’s brought this on then?”

“Simply as a means of stimulation. Productive stimulation, with any luck,” Mycroft replies haughtily. “I reject your proposal that we get used to boredom.” 

“If boredom’s what you’re combating, you’ve picked a shit hobby to combat it,” Anthea chuckles between bites, “Fishing’s mostly sitting by the water and waiting. Ah, well. Best to get our nutrients from lots of sources. Can’t say I’m much fond of seafood, but s’pose I’m rather less fond of starving."

"Good," Mycroft says, sitting beside her, “I’d rather my effort not be for naught.”

The pair is quiet as Anthea finishes one fat banana and begins to eat another. Mycroft takes another look at the piles of sticks scattered around their camp.

“You’ve quite the confidence in our ability to set a fire,” he comments.

Anthea answers in the form of a huff, continuing to eat.

Multiple fires will make their camp more visible from the sky. It won’t do them any good at this time of day, so Mycroft puts that task aside for later. Instead, he picks up the thin metal scrap and spends some time scraping it against his stone seat, working the end into a sharp point. Anthea tosses her peel aside and watches him work.

After testing the point against his finger, Mycroft begins cautiously bending the metal into the shape of a hook. Afraid it could snap under the pressure, he works slowly. Anthea alternates between watching him, the treeline, and the horizon. Mycroft can sense her unease.

“Were there a lot of fat ‘nanas left?” she asks, tapping a beat on her thigh with her fingers.

“Something wrong?” 

“Just asking.”

Mycroft looks her direction with a raised eyebrow. In return, Anthea gestures with her good arm as if to say, “Well?”

Directing his gaze back towards the hook between his fingers, Mycroft replies, “Plenty. We’ve a bit of time before that will be a worry.”

“I’m not worried,” she says, although she’s resumed her nervous fidgeting, “Just not sure what to do now. Can’t start a fire on my own, can’t set a hook. I’m not exactly…” she pauses to find the word, “...dextrous at the moment.”

“Just relax, then.”

“You’re not the only one in need of stimulation, Mycroft.”

“Then think of something. I’m trying to keep us alive, not entertained.”

Even though he’s not looking, Mycroft could swear he feels Anthea roll her eyes.

There’s a few moments of silence as Mycroft ties the reed onto the hook. He pulls at it, testing the strength of the knot. Once satisfied, he sits upright, scanning their firewood storage for something he could use as a rod. As he stands and makes his way toward the pile, Anthea begin to whistle.

With one hand carrying the hook and line, he uses the other to shift through the wood pile. Nothing they’ve collected will work, he realises. It’s all either too thick or too flimsy. Anthea’s tune grows in volume as he shuffles to the treeline. 

There’s a young tree growing in between the rocks that looks ideal. Mycroft tests the strength of the trunk. It’s firm but should break under enough pressure. Anthea is singing quietly now, interspersed with bouts of whistling where she doesn’t know the lyrics. 

Mycroft wraps a hand around the trunk and bends the tree back and forth a few times. He puts his foot on the base and leans his weight against it. The tree creaks and, with few more precise kicks, snaps in two. As Mycroft bends over the broken trunk, he glances behind him to see Anthea tapping her fingers to her tune and swaying. He takes the stick, line and hook and walks back to his former assistant.

“David Bowie?” He says as he sits beside her.

Anthea stops whistling, genuine surprise in her eyes. “I would’ve thought pop culture well below your standards of interest. I’m impressed!”

“It’s of my interest when the Chancellor of the High Court can be bought with a few autographed records.”

Anthea smiles. “Hm. I think you’re lying. Mycroft Holmes is really a fan of eighties’ glam rockers, isn’t he?”

Mycroft shakes his head, smirking. 

“In fact, I bet if I hummed any of the top 40, you could guess it before the first chorus.”

That gets a chuckle out of him. “I assure you, I could not.”

There’s a glint in Anthea’s eye. “Sorry, forgot to account for your age. Doubt anything playing on the radio appeals. It’s all just sex and drugs and noise to you now, I bet. And I won’t even get you started on that bloody rap ‘music.’ Kids these days just have no taste, eh?”

Mycroft’s no longer chuckling. Anthea is barely holding her laughter back. He raises and eyebrow in what he hopes reads as a stern reprimand—though its only effect is to make the grin spread across Anthea’s face. He sighs and settles for saying, “I thought you were going to find something to keep you occupied.”

“Yeah. Figured, hey, while you focus on keeping us alive, I’ll focus on the entertainment.”

“You call this entertainment?”

“Well _I’m_ entertained.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “You’re absurd.” He ties the line to the stick and returns to his feet. “Now, if you can restrain yourself, you can come keep me entertained while I catch us our dinner.”

—-

Anthea does an admirable job keeping Mycroft’s sprits up when, hours later, they return to camp empty-handed.

“The fish must not like bananas,” she reasons, “we can find better bait and try again.”

“Mmm.”

“We’ll treat it as an experiment. Test different baits and different locations to see where they’re biting.”

The mention of experiments reminds Mycroft of his brother which further sours his mood.

Hours in the sun and gradually losing patience were beginning to wear on him. Fishing wasn’t as stimulating as he’d hoped. Though he and Anthea had chatted for a bit, the pair had gradually lapsed into silence as they waited for something to bite. Anthea eventually wandered off to skip rocks along the bank—an exercise surprisingly unhindered by her sling. Mycroft was left to grow steadily irritated as he was convinced her behaviour would scare the fish. 

“We’ll just have fruit for supper instead. No big deal.”

“You ate the last banana, Anthea.”

“I’ll go back and get us more then.”

“It’ll be dark by the time you get there.”

“I can be quick.”

“No.”

“I’m _hungry_ , Mycroft.”

“Well we shall have to get used to that, won’t we?” Mycroft’s stomach picks this moment to grumble loudly. He rubs his eyes and sighs. “Let’s just get a fire started.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” sarcasm colours Anthea’s voice, “You do that. I’ll just sit by doing bugger all. Just what I needed. More useless nothing.”

“Good Lord, if you want to wander off into the night and encounter some venomous creature on your own—by all means, be my guest.” 

“Mycroft—just,” Anthea clenches her fist, relaxing it with an exhale, “I’m not—I’m just a little tetchy at the moment. Just—do what you think is best and let me sulk in the meantime.” With that, she shifts to her hands and knees and crawls into their tent before sinking onto her back.

Mycroft leans the fishing rod against the tent. He squats beside the largest fire pit, picks up a stick, notes the notch in the wood he’d been trying to work earlier, and sets to starting a fire.

—-

Adrenaline bursts through him the moment Mycroft sees sparks fly from the wood. He twists the stick faster, lowering his face and blowing towards the log, coaxing the flames to grow. He hollers in surprise when the kindling catches.

Anthea is on her feet and beside him in moments. “Keep blowing, get it to spread—” she moves opposite of him and sinks to her knees, “that’s it, you’ve got it.”

They sit back as the flames finally grow on their own.

“Good job, boss,” Anthea laughs. Mycroft can’t help but smile back, feeling accomplished. He sits down beside her, stretching his toes toward the flames. The light flickers over the rocks between his legs. Anthea leans over and adds a log to the fire. After a few more minutes admiring his work, Mycroft gets up and walks towards the other piles of sticks Anthea scattered around their camp. Using the flames from his starter fire, these take little effort to set alight. 

“We’ll have to keep feeding these throughout the night,” Anthea says, “We could take shifts sleeping?”

“I don’t expect to get any real rest tonight. Besides,” Mycroft replies, squatting next to her. “I’d hate to miss the cavalry’s arrival.”

Anthea nods with determination. “That’s right. They’re coming now for certain.”

Mycroft meets her eyes and, for the first time since crashing into the ocean, agrees wholeheartedly.

If he were to self-reflect, he’d determine that this sudden positivity is irrational, borne out of the sense of accomplishment starting the fire gives him. But he allows the feeling to remain—not just hoping but genuinely believing that they’ll be rescued that night.

So they stay up together, stoking the fires. To distract from their hunger, they sip at their water collection. When Anthea suggests they sing campfire songs, Mycroft doggedly refuses, generating banter which keeps them entertained. More and more clouds break apart as the night progresses, revealing a multitude of bright stars.

They stare at the sky, hoping that one of these stars might begin to flicker and move in the familiar, steady pattern of a man made contraption.

Afraid to look away, Anthea works fast whenever the fires need more fuel. Mycroft sees a light in motion and nearly shouts before he identifies it as a satellite, unlikely to be of any use to them. They both strain their ears that they might hear a mechanical motor over of the sound of the ocean tide.

Though they eventually agree to have one of them rest while the other keeps watch, neither manage to get any sleep.

So they’re both awake when the stars begin to fade, sun peeking over the horizon and glittering across the waves.

Neither of them speak. They let the small fires die down while the main one continues to blaze. Mycroft gets up and begins to collect dew. Anthea relieves herself in the bushes. They work together to reset the solar still. Mycroft collects some more sticks and adds them to their woodpile. Anthea checks the traps, still untouched. They sit together and stare at the sea.

They’re both hungry but neither seem to have the energy to collect more fruit. Anthea crawls into their makeshift tent and lays on her back. She covers her face with her hand and sighs.

Mycroft scans sky one last time. Then he drops his eyes to the fire crackling at his feet, no longer feeling proud of its existence.

Now, all he feels is tired.

He turns his head to look at Anthea, unmoving in the shade. The two of them must be the most pitiable things in the world, he thinks. He, who directed countless complicated political operations and oversaw numerous dangerous missions, completely at nature’s mercy. Had he really thought he was any more important than anyone else on this earth? That he was _superior_? Clearly, without the comforts and conventions of civilized society, he is no better than the billions of other human beings whom he’d deemed goldfish—worse than that, in fact; he’s sure there are those who’d rise to such an occasion as this. John Watson, for one. Even his brother would likely fare better than he has. All Mycroft has managed to do, he thinks, is hack together a schoolboy’s idea of a fort and start a basic campfire. Truly, he must have an overinflated ego to think either of these were worth feeling pride over.

He allows himself to wallow in pity for a few minutes.

Afterwards, he rises to his feet and walks toward his fishing pole.

Because, _damn it all,_ he thinks—if he wants to be a worthwhile man then he’s going to have to start somewhere.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't wanted to abandon this story but took a suuuuper long break working on it. Hoping that future chapters are easier to write than this one--we're still barely in the main meat of this story, if you can believe it.  
> Thank you so much for reading!!


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